


Valentine's Day

by ceywoozle



Series: One Word Bottomjohn Prompts [26]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, sorry i just really love cats, there's a cat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 06:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3370727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>part of the one word bottomjohn prompt series.</p><p>Sherlock prepares for his first Valentine's Day with John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Valentine's Day

It's Lestrade who's the first to mention it. They're at a case, he and Sherlock standing side by side over the latest corpse. John is talking to Sally in the other room and if he strains his neck Sherlock can see them, slightly standoffish, both of them clearly making an effort. John tense and professional, Sally stone-faced and calm.

“So,” Lestrade says, far too casually, and Sherlock lets a small portion of his attention slide over to him, splitting it three ways between John, the corpse, and that odd note of delicacy in the DI's tone. “Saturday, then.”

Sherlock doesn't say anything, but waits for him to go on.

“Soooo...?” Lestrade prompts after a few seconds of empty silence.

Sherlock says nothing. In the other room, John runs a hand through his hair and Sherlock can read the frustration in the gesture. He wonders what he and Sally are talking about but is fairly sure it's the usual back and forth of 'I don't know why Graham lets you come along' and 'Piss off, Donovan.'

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm.”

“So? Saturday?”

Sherlock huffs and pulls his attention away from John, focusing it on the man at his side. Greg is watching him, expectation and tentative hope evident in his expression.

“Actual sentences would be helpful, Geoff.”

Lestrade rolls his eyes. “Come on, Sherlock. Saturday. _Valentine's Day?_ This is the first year you and John are...er...you and John are...”

“Fucking?” Sherlock suggests pleasantly.

Lestrade's face turns beet red and he glares at him. “I mean, you two have always been... _together._ This year you're actually...you know... _together.”_

Sherlock sneers at him. “Don't be asinine. I know what John and I are.”

“So you're doing something then? Because if you need some ideas—hey! Oi! Sherlock! Where are you going?”

Sherlock is already halfway across the room and heading towards John. “Home,” he snaps over his shoulder.

“What about my case?”

“Interview the sister. Really, Graham. Are you sure you're qualified?”

 

~~~~~~~~~~

 

In the cab ride home, Sherlock glares out the window. John is silent next to him. After several heavy minutes a warm hand creeps into his on the seat between them and John's voice cuts into the droning silence of the car, clipped but concerned.

“You okay?”

Sherlock glances over at him, at that perfect face, filled with lines and small scars and the reflections of a thousand hurts, both tiny and earth-shattering, their evidence left behind over the forty-five fierce years of its existence.

_God, he's beautiful._

Sherlock smiles, slipping his fingers between John's.

“Lestrade's an idiot.”

John rolls his eyes. “We're all idiots to you.”

“Yes but at least _you_ try to hide it.” He pulls John's hand to him, dropping a kiss on the knuckles and John smiles, warm and bright and _oh_ alive, and Sherlock, looking at him thinks, _Saturday. Shit._

 

_~~~~~~~~~~_

 

The second person who mentions it is Molly. They are standing on opposite sides of a table with a chest cavity butterflied out between them.

“So,” Molly says. “Speaking of hearts.” She laughs nervously then stops at the look he gives her. “Well, um. You and...um...”

He gives her another look.

She blushes and turns away to fuss with the instruments laid out on the stainless steel trolley beside her.

She picks up a scalpel. “So,” she says. “Nothing then? I mean. It's Valentine's Day. Doesn't John like—”

“If you're incapable of working today, Molly, I do have better things to do.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry. I just thought you two were...you know. Forever.” She catches sight of his face and turns abruptly back to the corpse. “Right,” she says, and lowers the blade into the dead heart between them.

 

~~~~~~~~~~

 

Mrs Hudson is not surprising, really. She catches Sherlock on Wednesday as he's leaving through the front door.

“Oh, Sherlock, I meant to talk to you.”

“Not now Mrs Hudson.”

“Oh, it'll just take a tick. I was wondering if you and John would like a special cake for Saturday.”

“Saturday.”

“Yes, well, I know you must have a great deal planned already, but if you could let me know by tonight, dear, that would be nice.”

“I—no. No special requests.”

“Oh. Well, I'll make something nice, don't you worry. I know all of John's favourite things.”

“Do you? Oh. Good.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~

 

Mycroft calls on Thurday.

“Hello, little brother.”

“I'm busy, Mycroft.”

“I have a job for you and John.”

“We're not interested.”

“I wanted to give you some warning. The car will be there to pick you both up on Monday.”

“Piss off, Mycroft.”

“Sooner would have been better, but I knew you were unlikely to agree due to whatever asinine activities the good doctor would drag you into this weekend.”

“Go away.”

“Do you see how considerate I am of your life choices?”

“Why are you calling me.”

“Monday at ten o'clock, Sherlock. Pack warm.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~

 

It's Friday and John is out. Sherlock's not sure where. John said where he was going but Sherlock was only half listening and it's only when he hears the front door shut in the downstairs hall that he goes to stand by the window, watching John walk away.

Saturday. He has one day.

He spends an hour and a half on the internet, looking at sites in Switzerland for speciality chocolates and rare orchids, hunting down suppliers and warehouses and merchants. He dismisses them all, put off by the insignificance of them all. Chocolates and orchids. As if they matter. As if they say anything important.

He leaves the house at noon. He passes by Angelo's, who waves him down and asks if he'll be coming by with John tomorrow night, promising candles and bouquets and a new dish he's been trying out. Sherlock makes a non-committal answer and wanders on.

He passes several florists doing a brisk trade. A jewellery store with advertisements posted in their windows. He nearly goes in one, but the only jewellery he can think of John wearing is a ring and he doesn't think either of them are ready to face that yet.

He passes a bookstore where he purchases a half a dozen new mysteries of the kind that John likes and the new book from the latest in an endless line of Ripperologists and a Lizzie Borden case history out of an idle sort of curiosity.

He stops at Harrod's and buys chocolate, which he immediately regrets and ends up eating himself before three blocks are passed.

At the very last second he ducks into a florist and comes out thirty minutes later holding an ornamental cactus and feeling like an idiot.

The pet store is the last stop he makes and he knows as soon as he enters that it's a terrible mistake. There are puppies, hamsters, mice, rats, ferrets, rabbits...and he nearly turns around and walks out again when something catches on his sleeve.

Ten minutes later, he slides into a cab and the driver turns to look back at him, eyeing the tiny thing on his lap.

“That thing house trained?”

“If you hurry up and drive, you won't need to find out.”

The driver's expression turns even more dubious, but he twists back to the front of the car and drives.

“Missus has a cat,” the man says as he slides into traffic. “Got it for her ten years ago. Swear she loves that bloody thing more than she does me.”

“Fascinating.”

A sour look is directed at him through the rearview mirror, but the driver shuts up after that.

Thirty minutes later, laden with packages and bags and an orange kitten on a harness and lead, Sherlock is home and Mrs Hudson stares at him as he squeezes himself and all his purchases through the front door.

“What on earth—”

“Ah, Mrs Hudson. I'll need to put these things in your flat.”

“Is that a cat?”

“Yes, isn't he cute.”

“Sherlock, you know I have allergies!”

“Do I? Ah. Well, it's only for a day.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~

 

When John walks through the door at 8pm on Friday night, it's to find Sherlock standing in the middle of the sitting room with a cat attached to his sleeve.

“Sherlock, what—”

“Hello, John. We have a cat now.”

“But—”

“I've named him Tesla.”

“Why would you—”

“At least I think it's a he.”

“Sherlock, we can't have a cat.”

“Don't be stupid, John. Clearly we can.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~

 

It's Saturday.

_Valentine's Day._

Sherlock is staring into his microscope at nothing because John hasn't said a word and he's starting to get annoyed.

Sherlock's not sure what to do. Does he just give John the things he'd bought yesterday? He already gave him the cat. Or...well...showed him the cat. John hadn't exactly approved of that, but neither had he pushed the animal away when he'd woken up with it draped over his face this morning.

It's curled up on John's chest now, purring loud enough for Sherlock to hear it over the television.

But...surely John should be acknowledging Sherlock, too. After all, this whole love thing is supposed to be reciprocal, isn't it? So, what does it mean if one partner doesn't reciprocate? And Sherlock himself almost hadn't. Does that mean they don't love each other?

Nonsense. Of course they do. Sherlock doesn't need flowers or chocolates to tell him that.

But. Well. He really likes chocolate. And flowers are nice, especially the poisonous ones. And so are kittens. And John likes the kitten, doesn't he? Surely he wouldn't be sitting there on the sofa with it if he didn't.

Or maybe John is like the cab driver's wife. What if his affection for Sherlock has already started to become subsumed by his new love for the cat.

_Oh my God. What have I done._

He is already half way across to the sitting room before he realises he's moved and John looks up at him, slightly annoyed, as he stands beside the sofa, glaring down at him.

“Sherlock—”

“Do you love me, John?”

John frowns. “What? Of course I do, you git.”

“Then why are you lying there with the cat.”

“You mean the cat that _you_ brought home without asking me first? I'm watching the FA cup, Sherlock, and you're blocking the telly.”

“So this is some petty revenge for bringing home the cat?”

“What the hell are you on about?”

Sherlock snarls. “This! Us! Ignoring me like you are!” He throws his hands in the air, pacing in a circle and turning back to glare at John who is staring at him like he's gone mad. “You're doing this on purpose to punish me!”

“Sherlock. What—No, hold on. Are you experimenting with chemicals again? I told you to open the windows when you—”

“I'm not experimenting, for God's sake! I've been staring at an empty microscope for the last two hours because my supposed boyfriend refuses to acknowledge that it's Valentine's Day!”

John stares at him. On his chest, the cat uncurls itself and thumps to the ground to find somewhere quieter to nap. The sound of the football announcer is suddenly very loud.

“Valentine's Day?” John echoes after a minute in which he seems to have been stunned into silence. “Are you—Sherlock. You hate Valentine's Day.”

Sherlock scowls. “I don't hate it.”

“Yes, Sherlock. Yes, you do.”

“No, I just—”

“Sherlock.”

“Yes! Fine! Okay, I hate it! It's fatuous and commercial and it's the day with the highest rate of suicides and I _hate_ suicides, they're so pointless and boring. I _hate_ this ridiculous, nonsensical, idiotic day.”

John looks at him and nods. “Right. Well, I know that.”

Sherlock stares at him for a second then narrows his eyes. “You know that.”

“Of course I bloody know that, you git. And I agree. This is a bloody awful day that does nothing but rub in your face that you're alone.”

“But you're not alone.”

“Well no, not now. But it's still a bloody awful day.”

They stare at each other.

“Right,” Sherlock says.

John nods. “Okay. Good. Now move, you're blocking the telly.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes again. “Right.”

“Yes, right. You're right, I'm right. Now. Shift, Sherlock.”

“No.”

“What?”

“I said no.”

“Sherlock, for God's sake—”

“No, John. No. I've gone all week listening to half of London harping on about _Valentine's Day this_ and _Valentine's Day that,_ and _oh Sherlock don't you love John, oh Sherlock you're such a disappointment._ I spent all day yesterday buying rubbish you don't need. I ate an entire box of chocolate in under a quarter of an hour. I bought a cactus. I bought a bloody cat, for God's sake!”

“You bought me the cat for Valentine's Day? Sherlock. _Why?”_

The sound Sherlock releases is something like a hawk might make as it dives for its prey. He flails his hands in the air before whirling on John, rage and accusation in his eyes. “I don't know! I don't bloody know! Because everyone said I should and I didn't know what to do so I just did it all! And now it turns out you don't even care and we have a _cat_ and I swear to God John, before another hour is out I am going to bugger you into the bloody mattress and it's going to be the best sex of your life because it is Valentine's Day and that's what people do on Valentine's Day apparently!”

He reaches for the remote and with a yelp John snatches it back, horrified laughter in his face. “Sherlock! Bloody hell, it's the FA Cup!”

Sherlock inhales carefully and glares at him. “John. If you do not turn that off and get into the bedroom right now I will bend you over and do it right here.”

“But the Cup—”

The rest of the sentence is lost in a yelp as Sherlock dives for him and they only last a few seconds on the sofa before they both fall in a heap on the floor, John giggling madly and Sherlock cursing breathlessly as they wrestle for the remote.

It doesn't much matter which of them is stronger, whether it's Sherlock or John who is better in a hand-to-hand fight. John is perhaps slightly stronger, but Sherlock is larger and leaner, and anyway John is laughing too hard to do much more than turn the telly up as Sherlock paws at their trousers and drags them off, and he doesn't stop laughing till Sherlock kisses him into silence, swallowing the last of John's giggles with his mouth. And by the time Sherlock pushes into him, amidst panting breaths and long, low moans, John really couldn't care less about the game.

 


End file.
